feels @heartil-ation - Tumblr Blog

thunderstruck9

pareidoliaaa

73w36w-deactivated20160906

aura-eden

Pablo Picasso, Guernica, 1937

radiantquotes

somethingsfuckey-deactivated201

Once you lose someone, it is never exactly the same person who comes back.

Sharon Olds, Satan Says (via somethingsfuckey)

blushurs

craigslist love story part 1/?

ramonameisel

One. Famine is a teenage girl, sipping cappucino foam through the holes of her gas mask. Her eyes are hidden behind tainted black; when you pass her, you see the bright reflection of something red behind the glass. You saw it, but it did not happen. Two. Hundreds of people in the streets are bawling but one of them stays silent. He wears the oil-greased overall of the workshop around the corner. It reads Conquest. His teeth are razor sharp and glisten in the dying sun above. It reminds you of a butter knife. You blink and he’s gone. Three. Four men in posh busniess suits drop dead to the earth. A middle aged lady looks at you with a knife in her hand and a gun at her hip. Someone far away calls out for her. Her name is something British, but you’re sure they called her War. She throws her head back and starts to laugh. It chills you to the bones. Four. An old man smiles at you from a park bench while he throws rotten corn at the pigeons. You realize the pigeons are actually vultures. When you look at the old man again, Death looks back at you. It doesn’t matter. The world around you is already dead.

the four horsemen of the apocalypse, re-imagined as vigilantes in a post apocalyptic setting | r.m

fridakahlo-art

I am that clumsy human, always loving, loving, loving. And loving. And never leaving.

Frida Kahlo, The Diary Of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait (via 4a0000)

blazepress

topsidepress-blog

I Want A Dyke For President (1992) By Zoe Leonard, artist, activist, member of Fierce Pussy

I want a dyke for president. I want a person with aids for president and I want a fag for vice president and I want someone with no health insurance and I want someone who grew up in a place where the earth is so saturated with toxic waste that they didn’t have a choice about getting leukemia. I want a president that had an abortion at sixteen and I want a candidate who isn’t the lesser of two evils and I want a president who lost their last lover to aids, who still sees that in their eyes every time they lay down to rest, who held their lover in their arms and knew they were dying. I want a president with no airconditioning, a president who has stood on line at the clinic, at the dmv, at the welfare office and has been unemployed and layed off and sexually harrassed and gay-bashed and deported. I want someone who has spent the night in the tombs and had a cross burned on their lawn and survived rape. I want someone who has been in love and been hurt, who respects sex, who has made mistakes and learned from them. I want a black woman for president. I want someone with bad teeth and an attitude, someone who has eaten that nasty hospital food, someone who crossdresses and has done drugs and been in therapy. I want someone who has committed civil disobedience. And I want to know why this isn’t possible. I want to know why we started learning somewhere down the line that a president is always a clown: always a john and never a hooker. Always a boss and never a worker, always a liar, always a thief and never caught.